


Merely Players

by Canon_Is_Relative



Series: Winter's Child [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:29:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard enough to be a teenager when your world hasn't just been turned upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merely Players

**Author's Note:**

> Operates in the "Winter's Child" 'verse and takes place in the aftermath of "One Man in his Time," which should be read first.  
> Beta'd by ImpishTubist

_All the world's a stage,  
And all the men and women merely players.  
They have their exits and their entrances,  
And one man in his time plays many parts._  
-William Shakespeare, _As You Like It_

 

5:40 PM  
Text from: John  
 _I won't make it to the show tonight. Looks like it's going to be Kenny's last night. I need to stay with his family. Cal will understand, right?_

_I don't know that he will, but I'll try to find the right thing to say._

_Just tell him I love him._

_He knows that._

_And that I'll be thinking of him, and I know he'll be brilliant._

_You're not on call tonight, whereas this performance has been scheduled for weeks._

_Please don't start._

 

Sherlock had tears in his eyes when he stood up to applaud for his son. He had thought about it, before the boy's birth. Having no influence over his genetic makeup in the slightest, he had worried. What if he had no musical inclination? What if he didn't have the talent, the appreciation, the skill? He'd worried about it. While John had been busy fussing over names and schools and money, Sherlock had worried about things like this. Talent. IQ. Imagination.

But their son had turned out perfectly. Of course he had. In so many ways. So many ways that Sherlock was hard pressed to number them, and that delighted him. Delighted him the way that watching Calvin at the piano delighted him. His darling boy, bent over keys of ivory and ebony and coaxing unearthly tones from them, bringing forth the music of the spheres. Marvellous. Sherlock might have been the only person in the audience, for how much thought he gave crowd surrounding him. There was Calvin, there was music, and for thirty minutes that was everything.

\---

"Where's John?" Calvin had recently taken to that, calling John  _John_  because he knew how it irritated him. Sherlock had told him how their names had come about, Dad and Papa, recounting his argument that Calvin should simply call them by their first names and how adamantly John had refused.

"He's at the surgery. Couldn't be helped. But I recorded your performance for him. Calvin...you were--"

"He wasn't on call tonight, he said so, he  _said_  he'd be here."

"One of his patients is--"

"Is clearly more important than me, I get it. Whatever."

Sherlock opened his mouth to defend John, and then sighed, shaking his head. Calvin watched him closely and saw the moment when Sherlock silently acknowledged that he agreed with him. Sherlock watched Cal in turn, watched the muscles around his mouth tighten as he pursed his lips in an uncanny imitation of the errant father in question. Sherlock glanced over his right shoulder and felt his own lips thin as he realised who he was looking for. Lestrade. Who should have been there to hear his godson's performance, who should have been there to help soften the blow of John's absence. 

But Lestrade was not there, he was at home resting from a full day of physical therapy. He'd spent most of it insisting to Sherlock via text that he would be done in time for the performance and that he would be fine and wouldn't miss it for anything, that not even his jailer - as he called the expert in-home physical therapist that Sherlock had scoured London to find for him - would keep him away. But his text had come in just a few minutes before John's -  _The Jailer's not letting me out tonight and I'm not sure I'd win that fight even if I tried. Don't think I'll make it, Sunshine. Tell our boy I'll make it up to him._

The other performers were gathering around them now, two dozen girls and boys in fancy dress. These were the top students of the elite musical summer programme that Sherlock himself had attended - read: wreaked havoc on - when he was a child. The youngest of them was hardly out of nappies, the oldest a few years above Cal, none of them yet university age. And while there had been two that Sherlock had judged to be more technically accomplished than his son, Calvin had shone with a light that must have been plain for all to see. The other children flocked to him and, consciously or not, oriented themselves around him. No, not just him,  _them;_  Skye Vaughn had appeared at Calvin's side.

Sherlock watched Calvin shake off his disappointment and turn to slap palms with Skye, his new best mate since they met at the beginning of summer two months ago. Skye was taller than Calvin, quite tall for a fourteen-year-old boy, and striking. Sherlock had watched him with interest on the occasions that he'd come home with Calvin; there was a self-possession in his movements that was as unusual at his age as his height, and his skill with the violin was extraordinary. Sherlock felt him to be an excellent companion for their son, but something about him made John uneasy in a way he hadn't been able to express in any way that Sherlock found satisfactory. 

Skye returned Sherlock's handshake warmly. "How'd you like the show, Mr Holmes?"

"It was marvellous, Skye, truly."

Skye grinned and turned to the two adults behind him, introducing them as his parents. 

Sherlock inclined his head and accepted their admiration of Calvin's performance with a smile and a hand on his son's shoulder. He knew, intellectually, that their praise really did not reflect on him, except in that he and John were financially successful enough to afford the expensive lessons and proficient enough in their parenting skills to encourage his perseverance and discipline, but he found that he didn't much care. His chest swelled with pride as though it were his own skills they were applauding. 

When Calvin began to squirm, embarrassed, Sherlock squeezed his shoulder and released him, adding, "And Skye played exceptionally as well, but I've been given to understand that it's entirely improper to express the belief that any child's skill surpasses that of my own, so I'll leave it at that. You did well, Skye, very well, I congratulate you. You must be very proud of your son."

Mr and Mrs Vaughn blinked at him for a moment before Calvin clapped a palm to his forehead, flushing red and giving a mortified groan. " _Dad!_ "

Skye's laugh rang above the babble of the crowd and he squeezed Calvin's arm briefly before saying to his parents, "You see? I told you he was awesome."

"Skyler!" His mother reprimanded, glancing at Sherlock and looking almost as mortified as Calvin did. Sherlock gazed placidly back.

Mr Vaughn coughed slightly and said, "Well, the kids want to go 'round Milley's for an ice cream, we've volunteered to take them. Will you join us, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly and he glanced at Calvin, looking for a signal. But Calvin wasn't looking at him, he and Skye seemed to be sharing some sort of private joke. So Sherlock smiled, thinking it's what John would have done, and nodded. "Of course. And please, call me Sherlock."

\---

The group of children, still flying high off their musical success and being semi-alone at a table tucked away in a corner, the adults out of sight and mind on the far end of the room, were raucous and rowdy in a way that set Sherlock's teach on edge. Every now and again he could pick out Calvin's voice carrying above the rest, usually something incomprehensible, things like,  _Ok, now, listen, the rule is only_  one.  _Only_  one  _person for the rest of your life, and understand you're also stranded on a desert island..._

He had ordered a milkshake at the counter because Mr Vaughn - Albert - had asked him what he would like and Sherlock understood it would be in accordance with this tentative social contract they were embarking on to indulge him. So he ordered chocolate, John's favourite, and was now watching the whipped cream melt and collapse in on itself. 

After another burst of laughter from their offspring, Mrs Vaughn - Carole - smiled at Sherlock and then at her husband, squeezing his arm. He gave her a minute nod; a signal of some kind.  _Intriguing._

"It's so nice to finally meet you," Carole said, smiling at Sherlock, the expression warm but underlaid with something he thought was...unease? He braced himself. "Skyler talks about Calvin, and both of you, non-stop. Nothing but good things."

Sherlock nodded once,  _not surprising,_ and waited for her to come to the point.

"And. Well. We're just..." She looked at her husband and he cleared his throat.

"We're happy to know that Skyler has good...examples, if you will, in his life. When he...ah, when he came out to us a year ago, we were..."

_Ah, so that's it. How had I not seen? Usually children of this age are so...obvious. Wonder if John suspects._

Carole nodded when her husband trailed off. "We were so scared for him. With all the stories you hear these days. We just can't bear to think of anything happening to our Skyler. He's such a good boy, but he's always been so eager to please, I just don't want to see him taken advantage of."

Albert nodded, squeezing his wife's hand. "So we really were thrilled to hear that he thinks so highly of you and your--"

"Husband," Sherlock supplied. "John."

"Yes." Carole was smiling again, looking pleased, as though Sherlock has said something - though he hadn't really said anything - right. He tried to return the expression, feeling uncomfortably out of his depth and wishing John was there - as he  _should_  have been - to interpret this event for him. 

The seconds ticked by until they neared the point Sherlock had long ago made note of - the point of discomfort. He headed it off by pulling his chocolate shake closer and picking up the provided spoon, stirring it through the concoction and focusing on keeping the look of disgust - he hated sweets - off his face. He tried to deduce what might have been expected of him, here, and came across a memory that he'd tucked away for safe keeping. Sitting in a late-night cafe, he and John on one side of the booth, hands clasped beneath the table, Lestrade opposite, looking weary.  _I've been there,_  was what Lestrade was saying, looking between the two of them with such compassion it had set Sherlock's teeth on edge.  _And if there's anything I can do, if you want me to try talking to him, just say the word._  It had been the right thing to say - John had slept well that night for the first time in a week.

"We like Skye - Skyler -  very much," he said finally, thinking that they didn't need to hear that by we he meant himself and Calvin, not John. "And if there's anything that we - that I can do, for you or for Skye..."

It was the right thing to say. Carole looked down to hide the tears that welled in her eyes and Albert put his arm around her and nodded solemnly at Sherlock. He felt a bright flame  of pride flare up in his chest, quickly dimmed by a cloud of regret that neither John nor Lestrade was there to witness it then doused altogether by a cold wave of remembrance that he was annoyed with John. He folded his hands in his lap and looked at the clock on the wall, stifling a sigh and wondering when he could go home.

\---

Sherlock and Calvin rode together in silence, the cab making its familiar way home to Baker Street through light evening traffic.  
   
There was a point, not too many years ago, when this time together would have been filled with conversation, with delighted laughter, delighted chatter, with Cal's childlike, delightful deductions. There was that word - again, always - delight.  _Old French, delitier; please greatly, charm._

Calvin had been, almost from the moment of his birth, a delight. And Sherlock had taken unqualified delight in him. And, as a child, Calvin had always taken great delight in Sherlock. How jealously Calvin had coveted time alone with his daddy; how his eyes would brighten when Sherlock would come home or come to collect him at school; the long cab rides or nights curled up in Calvin's bed long past his bedtime, talking, exploring, teaching his son about the world as he saw it, learning to see it afresh through his untrained eyes; these were things that Sherlock had taken for granted. These were things that, with their loss, had left a hole somewhere in the core of his being that he covered as best as he could and did not try to express, even to John.  
   
Calvin stared out the window, lost to thought or memory. Sherlock watched him covertly, trying to follow his thoughts. The performance? No. The party afterwards? It would seem. He and Skye at the centre of things, conductors in turn. Every now and again Calvin would fidget, rubbing his hands together and twisting his fingers, shifting in his seat as though impatient to be let loose.   
   
As they exited the cab Sherlock looked up and saw the light on in the flat above them. Calvin followed his gaze and said tightly, "John's home."  
   
"Indeed."  
   
Calvin crossed his arms and hesitated on the pavement.  
   
Sherlock took a step towards the door, and looked back at him. "In his mind, he wasn't putting his patient above you. It was simply that his need tonight was greater than yours. That's how he sees it."  
   
"Well, he can stuff it," Calvin snapped, pushing past Sherlock to open the door and stalk up the stairs.  
   
In the living room, John turned toward the door, phone poised halfway to his ear. He hadn't taken off his jacket or shoes; just arrived.   
   
"Where've you two been, I was just calling."  
   
Calvin said nothing but kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket on the couch, making for his room.  
   
"Calvin," John reached for him, face grey with fatigue. "How was--"  
   
"It was great, yeah. I was the best ever. I'm going to be on telly. The Queen was there." Calvin shrugged him off and ducked around him, slamming the door to his room.  
   
"What--" John looked at Sherlock, shoulders slumping. "Not good?"  
   
"It was remarkable. He played...he was phenomenal. You should have been there."  
   
John stared at him. Sherlock turned away to hang up his coat. When John spoke his voice was so devoid of emotion Sherlock felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. "Kenny Cook passed two hours ago. He regained consciousness at the end. His family's last memory of him will be him crying and begging them to make the pain go away."  
   
"A horrible situation, I agree," Sherlock said carefully, tucking his hands into his pockets, maintaining a neutral stance and meeting John's eyes. "But there's nothing you could have done for him. All Calvin wanted was for you to be there."  
   
John snapped, outrage overcoming exhaustion. "The Cooks lost their  _son_  tonight, just like Greg did, and you're begrudging me doing what I could by being there for them? I'm his  _doctor! Was_  his doctor! How dare you--"  
   
Sherlock felt his own temper rise to meet his husband's, felt his lip curl and his spine stiffen. He spoke very softly, "There's no need to bring Lestrade into this, John."  
   
"Oh, bullocks, what, so now only you are allowed to use him as leverage, just because you knew Jack, you held him as he was--"  
   
"Shut up!" The door to Calvin's room crashed open, shaking the wall. "Shut up  _shut up!_ For  _fuck's sake_  could we have a row without bringing  _him_  into it? Jesus Christ you two are fucking mental!"  
   
"Calvin Ja--Cal, don't--"   
   
" _Shut up!_ " The boy was close to hysterical, angry tears in his eyes, face red, fists clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles where white. "I  _hate_  that  _stupid_  kid! And you two! Carrying on about him all the  _fucking_  time! You make it worse, you know that? Uncle Greg's not like this! He's got so much more sense than either of you, I wish he  _was_  my dad, I wish I  _was_  his Jack!"  
   
John looked as though he might simply keel over from exhaustion and the force of Calvin's outrage. Sherlock was rooted to the spot, couldn't move or lift a hand to try and stop Calvin as he pushed his way past them, grabbing his trainers from the mat by the door and sprinting out in to the night. The sound of the front door slamming shut broke the spell and Sherlock felt the hole in his chest tear wider still, felt himself begin to crumble.  
    
   
12:02 AM  
Text from: Calvin H-W   
 _Im @ ur place back door let me in_

"What are you doing here?" Skye hissed, pulling the garden door closed behind him, stepping out to join Calvin on the back patio.

Calvin tucked his arms around himself and tried to keep his teeth from chattering. It wasn't cold at all. He shrugged, not looking at Skye. "Had a row with the dads."

"'bout what?"

He shrugged and blew out a short breath. "Stuff. Can I come in?"

"My parents will freak."

"Then I'll be quiet. Christ, Skye. What are they gonna do, ground you? Come on."

He pushed past him and into the house, not waiting for an invitation to creep up the stairs into Skye's room. He had flopped down onto Skye's bed before his friend caught up. Skye closed and locked the door and stood there, hands in his pockets.

"You wanna watch a movie or what?" Calvin asked after a minute, propping himself up on his elbows.

Skye shushed him, glancing over his shoulder as though expecting someone to have materialized through the solid wall.

Calvin snorted. "What the hell? They like me."

"Yeah. When it's you and me and a dozen other people around us. They'll seriously flip shit if they find you in here alone with me."

"Wha--" Cal bit off his incredulous protest, his eyes going guarded. "Why?"

Skye rubbed his forehead, shifting his weight, hesitating. "Fuck it," he said finally, looking at Cal and then immediately away. "Cos...they don't want me to be alone with you. Cos I'm gay, all right? You can run away now, if you like."

Calvin sat up, staring openly at him. "Honestly?"

"No, I'm making it all up just to fuck with you. What do you think?"

"No, fuck you, what the hell, why would I run away? I have two dads, if you don't remember. I'm not an idiot."

Skye snorted. "Yeah you are."

"Am sodding  _not._ What the bloody hell, Skye?" He pushed himself up off the bed, stalking toward Skye, glaring at him.

"You really can't stay here, I'm not kidding. It's not worth it."

"You fuckin' arse." Calvin shoved him. "Some friend you are. Piss off, I don't even care."

Skye caught his wrist as he made for the door, his grip painful as he pulled him back. "Don't be stupid. I want you to stay, all right? It's not my fault my parents would crucify me."

"Oh, cos they've decided I must be gay too? Here comes Gay Calvin from his Big Gay Family to pervert our son. Clearly. Let me go."

"Shut  _up,_  you're going to wake them! Hell, how thick are you?"

"You'd like to know just how  _thick_  I am, would you? Piss off." Calvin threw him off and stormed out of the room.  
 

12:17 AM  
Text from: Skye  
 _Where u gonna go?_

_Like u care_

_Well you cant wander round the streets all night._

_I'll go to my godfathers_

_Thought he was ill?_

_Fuck off Skye leave me the fuck alone._  
   
   
Skye's neighbourhood was about a hundred times nicer than theirs, posh houses set back from the street behind big old trees and ivy-covered garden walls. Baker Street always seemed like the back end of nowhere when he came home to it from hanging out at Skye's.

_Fucking Skye. It's people like him, him and his stupid fat-arsed parents, that make this world such a horrible place for people like me and people like my dads. Who the hell is he to say something like that, anyway._

"Bet you he's not really gay at all," Cal muttered aloud, stooping to pick up a rock and hurl it down the street, narrowly missing a parked Mini. "Bet he just thinks it's cool. Bet he thinks my dad is cool." He snorted, bending again for another rock. "Bet you he thinks he  _fancies_...my...oh, God. Oh Jesus fuck me that's disgusting." His face on fire, trying to shake off the accidental imagining of Skye cozying up to Sherlock, Calvin abandoned the rock and took off at a sprint down the road. 

The warm summer breeze buoyed him as he ran but it felt too soft. Everything was too soft, too nice, too pleasant. This wasn't life, this wasn't living. He didn't know what he wanted or needed and he hardly even knew what he felt, besides that he was about to burst out of his skin and he had nowhere to go.  
   
12:35  
Text from: Uncle Greg  
 _Come keep an old man company. I'll pay your cab fare, door's unlocked._

He smoothed his thumb over the screen, slowing to a standstill. 

His stupid parents couldn't keep their noses out of anything. He wondered which of them had called Greg. He blinked down at his phone for several long moments, and decided he didn't care. He pocketed it and made for the main road, lifting his arm for a cab.

He entered Uncle Greg's flat without knocking. He hesitated on the threshold and for a minute wasn't sure why - wasn't sure what it was about the silence in the flat that left him feeling so unsettled. Then he realised - it was the absence of sound; the absence of a laboured grunt as old Toby heaved himself to his feet and made his way over to the door, toenails that always needed a trim clicking against the wood floors, to investigate the newcomer. 

Calvin could hardly remember a time before Toby. He vaguely remembered, as a child, begging his parents for a pet. And while John refused, and probably for the best -  _You know what your dad would do to it, and I already have enough of a job keeping him from experimenting on_ you, _Cally Jack_  - Calvin's wish had been granted in the kind of sideways fashion of their family; a few weeks after hearing of Cal's plea, Uncle Greg had adopted a basset puppy. And while Greg had never wavered in his insistence that Toby was  _his_  dog, that he'd wanted him for himself, for companionship and the challenge of training a new pup, Calvin had always known the truth. Toby was for him. He and that dog had grown up together, the closest thing to a brother Cal had ever had, or ever wanted.   

In the wake of Uncle Greg's illness, caring for the canine had been out of the question so Toby had gone to stay with Detective Inspector Donovan for the time being. Sherlock, who had never given any indication that he viewed Toby as more than a decoration at best and a nuisance at worse, had been most vociferous in his objection to this particular arrangement, but John had overruled him. 

Calvin's heart felt heavy in his chest as he pulled off his shoes and closed the door without a great slobbery tongue impeding his efforts. As he stood he saw a tenner on the side table by the door, and knew it was for him - cab money. Looking around he saw that everything was in order and all the lights off. Uncle Greg must be in bed, then. It was pretty late and Sherlock had told him that Greg had been through a strenuous PT session in the afternoon. It was a miracle - an unqualified miracle that had put Cal on his knees beside his bed for the first time in his life - but the stroke seemed to have left his godfather's mind intact. His motor skills had taken a hit, however, though they had chosen to keep that particular piece of information from Cal for several days after his admittance. But Greg had never stopped insisting from the day he left the hospital that he would walk on his own again before long.

Cal was just considering raiding the kitchen before making his way to the guest bedroom when Greg called, "I'm out here, sport." 

Cal's head snapped up at the sound of his voice, but he followed it out to the small balcony that overlooked the street. He stepped out just in time to see the flash of Greg’s mobile as he tucked it back into his pocket. Text to the dads, _Prodigal son returned,_  no doubt.

Cal leaned in the doorway, not looking at Uncle Greg. Once glance had been enough - he was sitting in his wheelchair. His  _temporary wheelchair,_ as they all kept calling it until Calvin wanted to throw things. He was sitting in his wheelchair and hadn't gotten up to greet him at the door. A bad day, then. No progress, maybe. Maybe bad news, even. Maybe the therapist had told him that he shouldn't try to be getting around with just his cane, even though it had seemed to Calvin that his godfather was doing just fine - was getting better, even. 

Cal blew out a short, tense breath and mumbled, "Thought you'd be in bed or something."

Uncle Greg sighed. Calvin heard something clink softly and looked down in surprise. He had a thick-bottomed tumbler held loosely between his hands. It was nearly full of dark liquid and ice cubes. Greg didn't look up. "Long day. Not ready for bed yet." He sighed again, making no move to take a drink. "And what's your excuse?"

"You shouldn't be drinking," Calvin blurted, his voice quavering unexpectedly. He cleared his throat and looked quickly away when Greg looked up to meet his eyes. He swallowed thickly and said, "You're not supposed to drink."

Greg's face showed him to be weary beyond anything Calvin had ever seen before. "I know." He leaned forward and put the glass down on the wide railing in front of him, and folded his hands in his lap.

Calvin wrapped his arms around himself and looked up at the sky, shivering in the warm night.

"I hear the concert was wonderful," Greg said after a minute. "I wish I could have been there."

Cal only shrugged.

"Your dad says he's never heard you play better. He says you were amazing."

Cal snorted, his lip curling. "What else did dad say, that I'd run away and you should rescue me again?"

Uncle Greg raised an eyebrow. "Do you need rescuing?"

Cal sighed, his own weariness stealing the last of the fight from him, and he slumped against the wall. "Oh, probably."

After another minute, Greg said, "Tell me about Skye."

Calvin frowned, wary. "Why?"

"Your dad thought you might have been with him."

Calvin shrugged, going for nonchalant. "Was. He threw me out."

"Oh?"

Cal scoffed, dropping down to sit with his back against the brick wall, his forearms propped on his knees. "Yeah. Apparently he's decided he's a bloody poof and his parents are afraid I'm gonna be a big bad gay influence on him cos look at me I must be one too right and so we can't be alone together so he threw me out." Cal stopped to draw breath, feeling his cheeks burning. "Not like I wanted to stay anyway though, turns out he's a tosser."

Greg's voice sounded faintly amused, but trying for neutral. Cal's eyes narrowed as he spoke. "Sounds like he's got a crush on you."

"Well bloody good for him then."

"But you don't feel the same?"

Cal groaned and let his head roll back against the wall, the rough brick pulling at his hair. " _No,_ because I'm not gay."

"You sound like you'd be bothered if you were."

"Well I can't be, can I? Not with dad and John and you for my parents, you know what they'd say. Fuckin' hell, I shouldn't even care, they all say it already anyway. Jesus."  He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes until sparks popped behind them. He felt dangerously close to either crying or punching a wall, and he didn't want to do either of those things. Although punching the brick wall had its attractions; it would hurt like hell but he couldn't help feeling a sick sense of fascination, of desire to know what it would be like to feel the skin over his knuckles split, to feel blood on his fingers. He wondered if bleeding would result from putting as much strength as he could muster into a straight punch, or if it would have more to do with the texture of what he punched and the angle of attack and if there was scraping against the surface, not just impact.

This line of thought soothed him, grounded him, and he almost didn't hear Greg's soft reply. 

"You have a right to your feelings, Cal, without reference to whatever 'they' may say or think." 

There was a long silence, and Cal finally lowered his hands from his face. Greg said, even softer, "I hope you realise that."

Cal let out a long breath. His eyes went unfocused, and they were quiet for a long time. When he spoke at last, his voice felt very far away. "Skye is cool. That's it, he's just...cool. Better. Miles better. Than...than anyone. That's all. I want to...God, I want to be with him all the time. Everyone else is so  _boring,_  I can't stand even talking to my other friends any more. I don't...I...I don't know what I did without...before I met him. Everything just seems...I dunno. Blank. Grey. There's before and there's after and after is so much better...you know? I don't wanna think that it would ever change and go back to how it was. That's all."

He blinked and looked over to Uncle Greg. He was gazing back at him, his eyes a bit brighter than they were, his skin a bit less grey. He was smiling. Calvin felt his own sheepish smile start to grow, his cheeks still warm, his palms tingling as he began to fidget.

"He sounds like a nice kid," Greg said serenely, not reacting to Calvin's sudden discomposure. "Maybe I'll get to meet him one day."

Calvin shrugged, rubbing his hands on his thighs and biting his lip. "Maybe. John doesn't like him."

"Oh, no?"

Cal shook his head, then shrugged again. "Skye's way too cool for him. Papa's bloody  _boring._ Dad likes him, though. Probably just cos he plays violin. Dad probably wishes Skye was his son instead."

Uncle Greg snorted and reached over to brush the hair that had flopped into his eyes off of his forehead, his fingers lingering against Cal's cheek, his skin cool and rough and familiar; comforting. 

"Your dad," Greg said gruffly, "is so bloody proud of you that he hardly stops to notice there's people other than you in this world. Don't forget it, kiddo. You're the whole world to that man."

Calvin felt a warm glow climbing up his spine to settle in his lungs and over his heart, making it hard to breathe. He coughed once and looked away. He watched the traffic lights change and a line of cars go by, then he coughed again and said, his voice sounding rough, "You should really get some rest, you know. It's late."

Greg groaned and leaned back in his wheelchair, stretching out his back. "You're right, as always. God damn, I'm getting old." Cal stood and Greg looked up at him with a wink. "Wanna see a trick?" Before Cal could respond, Greg was, with what looked to be very little effort, pushing himself up and out of his wheelchair and taking a confident step forward. Without his cane, without any evidence of pain, and without asking for help.

Cal's eyes opened wide and he laughed aloud. Greg grinned at him, reaching for the tumbler he'd left perched on the railing. Cal had forgotten about it, and felt his stomach clench when Greg's fingers wrapped around it. He held his breath for a moment, and then the glow in his heart spread out to the tips of each finger and toe as he watched Uncle Greg tip the drink out over the railing. Calvin heard it splash to the ground on the pavement below, and he held out his hand to take the glass from Greg, turning to open the door back into the flat.

Uncle Greg left the wheelchair where it was, and followed him in.

Cal put the glass in the sink and turned to look at his godfather, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Can I kip in the guest room, then?"

Greg's face changed, his brows folding in on themselves and his eyes, though they were resting on Calvin, looking at something far away. He braced his hands on the back of a chair and sighed.

"What?" Cal asked, the back of his neck prickling. He tried to laugh. "Just tell me if you don't want me to stay. Have you got a midnight rendezvous planned or what?"

Greg lifted one side of his mouth in a small smile that quickly vanished, and he shook his head. "Nothing like that, I'm afraid. Of course you can stay, you know I'd never kick you out."

Cal shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders beginning to creep towards his ears. "But...?"

Uncle Greg sighed again and his gaze came back to the present, focusing on Calvin again. "I don't know what it is you fought about, Cal, Sherlock didn't tell me that. But something's set the poor bastard on his ear and between you and me I think you're the only one can set him right again."

Cal huffed an annoyed breath and looked away, grumbling, "Dunno why I'm supposed to be the one always looking out for his feelings. He should try it out himself sometimes."

Greg chuckled and shrugged, conceding a small point. "Fair enough, maybe. But that's how Sherlock is, you know. Always been that way. Well, not with me. But with John. And you. One fight and it may as well be the end of the world. Time doesn't move for that one until he's straightened out whatever it is that's gone wrong. You're his world, sunshine. Do us all a favour and let him know it's not ending." 

"He takes everything so...bloody...ser...ious..." Cal trailed off as he realized what he was staring at. 

_I_  hate  _that_  stupid  _kid! And you two! Carrying on about him all the fucking time! You make it worse, you know that?_

The photograph had been framed more than a decade before Cal was even born. Father, mother, child. A holy trinity of familial bliss - Cal couldn't remember the last time he'd really looked at it.

_Uncle Greg's not like this! He's got so much more sense than either of you, I wish he_  was  _my dad, I wish I_  was  _his Jack!_

_Oh, bloody hell._

Uncle Greg followed his gaze. His soft, pained exhale a moment later told Calvin that he knew what Cal was looking at, and had at least guessed at what he'd said to upset Sherlock.

Cal had often thought he wouldn't be here if not for Jack. Well -  _here,_ alive, yes. Of course. But not  _here,_ with Sherlock and John and Greg. He knew most other kids didn't think about why their parents had them. Didn't have to.  _When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much..._  And all that rubbish. But  _When a papa and a daddy love each other..._   He'd never quite been able to fathom how that had all worked itself out. The ache inside of him to know his mother, to know  _why_  his mother hadn't wanted him, had eclipsed for many years any mystery about his parents, about how they'd come to  _want to be_  parents. He knew his dad, better than he'd ever admit. And he knew his papa, knew that John wouldn't have gotten involved with Sherlock thinking kids were anywhere in the cards. But here he was. Here they all were. Because, Calvin was pretty sure, of that stupid dead kid in Uncle Greg's photograph. He couldn't quite believe that there would have been a Calvin Jack if there hadn't first been a Jack in Sherlock's life.

_Uncle Greg lost everything. Everyone._  The thought washed up unbidden onto the previously peaceful shores of his mind. It hurt. It  _burned._  He scrubbed his hand across his eyes and looked away, wiping the back of his hand across his nose.

_Not everything._  Papa's voice in his head was addressing Dad in a low tone. Was he remembering some half-heard conversation that was never meant for his ears?  _He's got you. Me. Calvin._

_What would you say if I told you that Lest - that your Uncle Greg is the closest thing to a father that I have ever known?_

That was a real enough memory. All of five years old and wondering why he didn't have a mother or a grandfather like all the other kids at school.

Uncle Greg lost his wife, his son, but he was still here. His world was still turning. He'd never forget his son Jack, never stop loving him, but it was Sherlock, maybe, who'd never let go of him. And now he was losing Uncle Greg. Lestrade. His  _closest-thing-to-a-father._  And Calvin had just told him to shove off. And John...he'd understand, sure, but he wouldn't  _get_  it. That's why dad had been so cross with him, tonight. John had put someone else's world above Sherlock's. 

He had to get home. He had to tell dad not to be angry with papa, and he had to let dad know that the world wasn't ending. It was mad, it was a  _mad_  world they all lived in together, but it made sense. He turned to the door.

But the thought of leaving Uncle Greg alone with a wheelchair and a dusty photograph was suddenly unbearable.

"You should come home with me. You haven't come around in ages," He said as though it were still as easy as DI Lestrade popping by the flat on his tea break. "C'mon Uncle Greg, the dads'll be chuffed. You can have my room, it's clean. Papa just did the wash and everything."

Uncle Greg gave him a lopsided smile and moved slowly to stand up straight, stretching out his back, no longer leaning on the back of the chair. Then he shook his head, and Cal's stomach clenched. "Soon, Cally. There'll be plenty of time for that, but not tonight. My own bed's calling my name."

"You know -" Cal caught himself before he could finish, and shook his head. Greg didn't press him. Greg knew, whatever it was he'd been about to say.  _You can stay with us if you want,_ maybe, or,  _We'll do anything for you that you need. We love you._  I  _love you. Please, oh God,_  please  _will you live forever?_

"C'mere, lad. Give us a kiss." Greg beckoned him over and Cal went, tucking himself against Uncle Greg's side and kissing his cheek. "Did you get the tenner? Great, there's another in my coat pocket for the ride home. Text me when you get there, all right?"

Cal nodded mutely, hugged Uncle Greg again, and made for the door.

\---

12:47 AM  
Text from: Lestrade  
 _Cal with me. Get some sleep._

12:49 AM  
Text from: John  
 _Did you go out? Where are you? Greg just texted, Cal's with him._

_I'm aware._

_He must be all right, or Greg would have said something. Right?_

_Go back to sleep, John._

_Are you all right?_

_Fewer distractions would be marvellous._

_Where are you?_

_Up._

_The roof?_

_Yes._

_Haven't been up there in awhile._

_Not since the night Calvin broke Lestrade's telescope, no._

_The night Cal broke - hang on, Sherlock I thought YOU broke Greg's telescope._

_It was four years ago, the details aren't important._

_Is there anything else you've been covering for our son?_

_Your son, John._

_Calvin didn't mean what he said about Jack, Sherlock. You do realize that, don't you? He's a kid. Kids say awful things without thinking about them.  
He's probably forgotten about it already.  
He loves you. I love you. Despite the fact you were an utter prat today._

 

1:20 AM  
Text from: Sherlock  
 _Upon further reflection, I find that I'm glad that you stayed with the Cooks tonight.  
Sometimes I forget to trust your judgment on human matters.  
They must have needed you very much. When you see them next, please convey my condolences, if it seems appropriate.  
What I mean to say is that I'm sorry, John. Forgive me. _

_I always do, don't I?_

_Inexplicably, yes._

_Clear night?_

_Yes._

 

1:53 AM  
Text from: Calvin  
 _Where are you guys?_

Text from: Papa  
 _We're up on the roof._

_Oh. Clear night?_

_Yes._

_Can I join you?_

_Of course._

_Dad's there too?  
Does he mind?  
I mean, does he want to see me?_

Text from: Dad  
 _Always, Calvin._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Summer Boys](https://archiveofourown.org/works/431541) by [Canon_Is_Relative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative)




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